


Asterion's Choice

by GretchenSinister



Category: Guardians of Childhood & Related Fandoms, Guardians of Childhood - William Joyce, Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Alternate Origin Story, Backstory, Gen, constellan empire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-11 00:59:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7018312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GretchenSinister/pseuds/GretchenSinister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>General Asterion of the Golden Army heads a unique recruitment mission through vast reaches of Constellan space. In a small fishing village on a planet far from the center of the Empire, he finds who he's looking for in the form of a lighthouse keeper's son. But there's no satisfaction to be found in a successful mission, not in this case, not for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Asterion's Choice

**Author's Note:**

> This is a re-working of the origin of Kozmotis Pitchiner and his rise as the Golden General. Don't look for canon here.

            Asterion leaned against the well-worn wall of the small coastal village's only inn, letting his exhaustion wash over him in waves as unending as the ones rolling against the nearby shore. The two others in his traveling party sat at a nearby table, poring over a surprisingly small stack of papers and making lists. He thought about ordering them to stop, to relax for one night and do nothing but eat hot fish stew and drink cellar-cool ale. In a village this size, the lists they were making would be short, and what they had to do wouldn't fill the day tomorrow.

            He stretched out his leg, trying to find a position that would ease the ache in his hip. Then again, maybe it would be better to leave this place as soon as possible, to move on to somewhere warmer and drier. He turned away from the others and towards the window. Outside, nothing was visible but the steady, slow, pulse of the turn of a lighthouse beacon. 

            No, he couldn't ask them to slow down. He had volunteered to lead this mission, after all. As much as a general of the Golden Army volunteered for anything. Ah, no, that wasn't fair. He would have been on the short list of officers to lead this mission, but as soon as he had heard the whole plan, he had really, truly, volunteered. He had volunteered because he understood the plan, and he believed it could be made to work somewhat as intended, but he didn't believe  _in_  it. Fortunately, if he did his job right, believing what the army high command told him wouldn’t be his responsibility for too much longer, and that was more than fine by him.

            He had been called a cynic many times, but it only disturbed him when he thought about the generals who  _weren't_. 

            "Ms. Cloud? I've noticed something consistently irregular in your town's records." Major Spinner's strident voice pulled Asterion out of his reverie and cut through the inn's thick atmosphere of cooking smells and smoothsmoke like a knife. The few locals present at the inn at this hour turned and glared a Spinner over their glasses.

            "Oh, yes?" Cloud, the village's clerk and treasurer, among other things, stifled a yawn. Not perfectly, though. Even from his table, Asterion could see that she did so. 

            Asterion groaned inwardly. It was a perfectly normal thing for a person to do, after a long day of work made longer by the army's official demands, but Spinner wouldn't see it that way. Spinner would see it as a sign of disrespect for him, for the mission, for the Golden Army, for the war, and probably for life itself. No, again, that was unfair. Spinner might be a twat who thought all rules and regulations had the significance of divine edicts, he might have been sent along on this mission to delay his entrance into combat, and he might not actually have been told the nature of the real mission, but surely he wouldn't make an issue of human reflexes.

            "Ms. Cloud," Spinner said coldly. "In these records, I have found only ten birth notes not paired with death announcements. Small as your village is, it  _does_  contain more than ten living people, does it not?"

            "Och, that." Cloud smiled, clearly unintimidated by Spinner. Asterion felt a nonsensical rush of pride towards her. Didn't he want the locals to take his agents seriously? But, then again, it was  _Spinner_. On the other hand, Spinner was pointing out a legitimate problem with the records. Asterion took another sip of his ale and kept listening, suspecting that he would have to intervene with a judgement about the situation soon.

            "Y'see, Mr. Spinner," —Spinner bristled and Asterion caught Ensign Neb forming the  blank face she used to hide inner laughter—"you're right about this being a small village. We know who's been born and who's alive, y'see. We see 'em least once a week, or a fortnight, at most. 'S only when a body's dead that the writing down has to happen, to make sure they aren't forgot."

            "Ms. Cloud, you try my patience with your rustic logic. Without records, how can you determine who is of age? Surely that matters, even out here!"

            Asterion noted that the locals were looking at Spinner with more hostility than ever. Really, it was astonishing how easily Spinner's voice could put people on edge. If only the ability had been combined with some talent other than following orders unthinkingly to the letter.

            "I assure you, we know the ages of every young person in our village, and whether they are suitable or not for whatever activity you might care to name," Cloud said, taking on a cold, perfect accent that would rival a ship's AI.

            Asterion closed his eyes. With luck, Spinner would not take Cloud's sudden change of accent as an attempt to shame him for the disgusting stereotype he had tried to employ against her village. Because the more this went on, the more Spinner dug himself into a hole, and when the trouble was finally worth more than the pain in his leg, Spinner would be unequivocally in the wrong to anyone who wasn't Spinner. 

            Spinner would not be a cynical general. Of course, with that voice and attitude, he wouldn't be one at all, though he'd probably wonder why he wasn't, all the way until he retired. If he lived that long. 

            Asterion opened his eyes just in time to see Spinner looking at Ms. Cloud with a still stern, but now much more pleased expression. He had to fight the urge to laugh. Of  _course_  what Cloud had been trying to do had flown over his head. Spinner saw her suddenly imperial accent as a falling-in with proper regulations. Too bad for her he suddenly saw her as willing to cooperate, though. 

            "Well, in that case, we will expect to see you at 0500 hours tomorrow morning in order to take us to meet every young person in the village who has become eligible to join the Golden Army since 17/5/6438, the date the last recruitment mission passed through here."

            Cloud goggled at Spinner, and Asterion rolled his eyes. No one was going to look suitable for their mission at the fog-farting ass crack of dawn. He pushed himself up, his jaw shifting as he adjusted his balance to accommodate his bad leg. Magic and tech could really only do so much when you really fucked yourself. And of course, active duty members of the Golden Army didn't use canes or anything of the sort. And people wondered why retirement seemed to precipitate such rapid physical decline. 

            "Major," Asterion said. "We're going to do this right, not quickly. If 0500 hours is earlier than most of the young people here wake up, we're not going to see them as we should." He turned to Cloud. "In the age range we're interested in, what do most of the young people in the village do? Are they in school, or do they work?"

            Ms. Cloud looked up at him nervously. He didn't want her to be so nervous, but neither did he want to sit down again, because that meant getting up again. And he couldn't help how he looked, even though it was at least part of the reason why he was standing where he was now. What did she see when she looked at him? He stood nearly two meters tall even in bare feet, even with the addition of a slight lean to one side that he'd never be able to get rid of. The average height in this village was a lot lower than that, and Asterion had been trained to intimidate everyone on some level—so much that it took a conscious effort for him not to. He was tightly muscled, since the Golden Army required all its officers to be in top fighting form at all times—or at least appear to be so. And while he rarely thought of his face, one of his past lovers had described him as a "handsome brick". Of course, that had been before the starburst scar that covered most of one cheekbone with offshoots heading dangerously close to his eye. Topping all that off was salt-and-pepper hair in a style longer than he liked, but that an officers' stylist assured him made him look more noble.

            He had bit his tongue then. He had a lot of things to say about the idea of looking noble, and the stylist didn't have the power to affect any of them. 

            And neither did he. But at least he knew he had thought about it, and so he had volunteered to be where he was, in a tiny fishing village, accidentally intimidating a woman who knew the birth dates of every child in her town, could speak with a perfect Constellar accent, and still usually didn't, because she was obviously smart enough to know what it amounted to out here.  _I hope all your children here look singularly unimpressive,_  he thought. 

            "Most of the young people of just-recruitable age in this village spend their days finishing remote standard educations."

            "Those would be broadcast from Kahiri?" Asterion asked. It had been the only place nearby large enough for even their comet-class to port. 

            A fragment of expression flickered over Cloud's face. "Actually, more often than not, no," she admitted. "Our lighthouse here serves as a strong receiver and antenna, too, and the children like to choose to get their standards from other places with schedules more to their liking."

            Better schedules would be the politic thing to say, and the thing Asterion could ignore. He'd bet his good leg, though, that someone had figured out how to pirate private standard eds, with better and more interesting teachers, more thoughtful and more current discussions of the world, and specialized courses that public standard eds didn't include—at least not when they were being broadcast here. 

            Maybe Cloud had been the one to figure out how to do it. He wouldn't be surprised.

            Thankfully, he wasn't here to care about that, and Spinner wouldn't know to look for it. 

            "I see," he said. "Will it still be feasible to gather all of the young people we'd like to see at 0800 hours?"

            "Yes," Cloud said slowly. Asterion guessed that she wanted to ask why this was being done. Her town had always met its volunteer quota in the past—with true volunteers, even, that was how things tended to work in places where education had to be pirated. There was no obvious reason why a general should come here looking for new recruits so soon after the most recent recruitment. 

            That is, the obvious reason would be that the war was starting to go badly and more cannon fodder was needed. But no one would say those things to a man in electrum epaulets. 

            "I'll send a message to everyone who qualifies and, if they still live with them, their parents as well. Other than the time, what should it say?"

            "Just that their presence is requested in—" Asterion paused. He hadn't been paying enough attention when they arrived to know what kind of official building they had in the town.

            "General, if I may," Ensign Neb interrupted. Pity, that. Spinner was going to be an ass to her about that, even if her interruption had saved him from looking clueless. 

            "Go on," he said. 

            "I believe the Hub looked large enough to include a meeting room for our purposes."

            Ah, of course, the Hub. It couldn't be Constellan village without a Hub. Whenever a town was incorporated into the Constellan government, provisions were granted for the construction of a Hub, preferably in a location hard by some already present government building. Hubs provided free access to all publicly available data in the Constellan Empire, food, hygiene, and clothing rations to any Constellan citizen who requested them, as well as free medical care—of a sort. Weak nanos, mostly, administered through terrifyingly large hypodermics, that might be able to do some good if they were updated and allowed to self-replicate. Of course, they couldn't do that without the patient taking a few pills of the things nanobots were made of, and those were always expensive. It wouldn't be a problem if the Constellan doctors that got sent to far-off Hubs were competent, but too often, they weren't. So the nanos were a poor best bet—they could hold obvious diseases at bay until time rolled around for a person's next allotment, but as for doing repairs? The body would reject their clumsy work well before then, giving the patient all the symptoms of a cold and probably the runs, to boot.

            The Hub also provided indoor public spaces where no money was expected to change hands. And that was all right, so long as you were fine with cheap versions of High Constellan aesthetics constantly staring you in the face, not to mention enough Golden Army recruitment posters to give even Spinner a headache. Oh, and the subtle assurance that the activities within the Hub were being monitored and sent back to somewhere near the center of Constellan space, where the data could be investigated to determine if there were any problems that needed addressing, anywhere in the empire.

            Asterion knew for a fact that that was a load of bullshit. Monitoring the outposts was something that there were facilities for, but as an ensign he had been invited to a party at one of these places,  _during_  the shifts of the people currently working. To be a Hub monitor was the type of job highly coveted by only two types of people: those whose ambitions lay outside of any usual career path but were canny enough to know that being within the Constellan system was safer than being outside of it, and people like the non-military version of Spinner. Either way, the reports they made were routinely, and wisely, ignored as fiction from the former group and pointless nitpicking from the second.

            But, of course, that didn't matter right now. Aside from everything else, the Hub would be large enough. And it was central Constellan enough that Spinner couldn't really raise any legitimate objections if Asterion approved it, and the less Spinner had to say, the better. "Yes, the Hub. Exactly. There will be no need to reserve a meeting room. If most people are at work, the main common room will be large enough.”

            Cloud nodded. "I'll send that message out as soon as I get home, then," she said. "Is there anything else that needs to be done?"

            "No," Asterion said, knowing that his tone might sound sharp, but he needed to prevent Spinner from doing something obnoxious, since Cloud wasn't following military protocol for speaking to a general. Speaking of which...well, he couldn't get Spinner out of his hair because there were so many other people's hair he could get into around here. "Ensign Neb, help Ms. Cloud carry these boxes of records back where they belong and return back here for the night. Major Spinner—" He really, really just wanted to order him to go to bed. He was perfectly within his rights to do so. But he didn't want to start having Spinner realize that he wasn't distant with him because he was a general, he was distant with him because he just didn't like him. This mission was, in all likelihood, going to be far too long for that. 

            He was about to ask Spinner to accompany him to his rooms to go over the data they had already gathered one more time—while he didn't want to do this with Spinner, who wouldn't know the kid they were looking for if he tripped over him, it would keep him out of trouble and help Asterion to make an accurate assessment tomorrow. 

            Before he could put this plan into motion, however, the door of the inn slammed open. An apparition in a heavy black raincoat bolted into the room. "Help! I need help! My mom's having another attack." The figure flipped back his hood, and a number of the inn's guests, apparently having recognized him, stood up and approached.

            "Where is she, Mottie?" A solidly-built fisherwoman asked. "In your boat? On shore?"

            The young man shook his head violently. "I couldn't move her! She's still at the lighthouse! Alone!"

            "Do you want me to get Dr. Iser?" Cloud asked. 

            The young man didn't immediately say yes, and in that instant of hesitation, he captured Asterion's attention. So, this was a choice, then. A terrible choice, a no-choice. Dr. Iser would have the necessary equipment to solve the problem, or at least there was a better chance they did than the Hub. But Dr. Iser wasn't free, and it was very likely they weren't cheap, either. 

With a sick mother and no one else in the family, any debts incurred would fall to Mottie to repay. If Dr. Iser wasn't fully part of the community—and they weren't, otherwise it wouldn't even be a question of running to get them—those debts would be in Constellan sols, neatly numbered and maybe impossible to pay back.

            That was the hesitation. That was the calculation. Mottie knew all this, and he knew he needed to decide quickly, too. 

            "Yes, please, Ms. Cloud, go get him, have him meet us at, at—Uma, it's late, but can we use your house? It's closest to the tie-in for the lighthouse."

            "Of course, lad," said another woman. 

            The young man looked around the room, looking for friendly faces, and, yes, finding them. "Dr. Iser won't go out on the water at night, so I'm going to need people to help me bring my mother back to the mainland. She—she doesn't understand that she needs medical help. It's like last time. She doesn't want to leave the lighthouse."  
            Two people volunteered without more prompting—a man and a woman who had been sitting together, maybe a husband and wife, Asterion thought. They both seemed singularly unimpressed by the idea of Dr. Iser refusing to go out onto the water at night. 

            As they joined Mottie, Asterion was noticing things that he'd rather not. A whole lot of things that he'd rather not. Because didn't Mottie have enough problems already?

_Yes,_  the calculating part of himself whispered.  _Mottie has a whole host of problems. He's living out here, with no better prospect than becoming a lighthouse keeper himself, no doubt taking on the job after his mother becomes too ill to do so reliably. You can hear what they're not saying. The problem is that she doesn't understand something that she usually does. That means the problem is in her mind, and no Hub nanos are going to help fix that. That's a big problem. And it's a big problem that he'd do anything to fix, call on all possible aid. And isn't it good that he already knows where to look for it, isn't it good to see such a young man making decisions in an emergency? Isn't it good that he has a personality that makes his community so willing to help him? Isn't it good that you know just the kind of opportunity to offer him that would allow him to pay for the care that his mother needs?_

            "Ensign Neb and I will also come and offer our assistance," Asterion said. “Major Spinner, stay here and begin a review of the earlier data." Even though there was a very good chance that they wouldn't need it, now. "Ensign, fetch your first aid kit. It may be useful if we end up on an island where the doctor is not."

            Mottie turned sharply to look at Asterion, and his eyes went wide and his mouth fell open. Clearly, he hadn't registered that there was a general of the Golden Army standing hardly four meters from him.  _Doesn't that mean he's critically lacking in observational skills?_  Asterion asked himself wearily, unconvincingly, even as he noted with detached satisfaction how awed the boy immediately became. 

            "Thank you, sir," Mottie said, much more quietly than he had spoken before. He took a short breath—probably stifling a number of questions he had—and turned to the others he had asked to help. "Let’s go. I don't want to waste any more time." And that was good, too, the regaining of his focus so quickly. There would be time to be awed later.   
  
***

 

            The run through the town and the trip to the lighthouse on Mottie's boat proceeded basically as Asterion expected them to, up to and including Neb's look of worry when he forced himself to keep up with the others. It was justified, but there was no help for it. No one else had mentioned getting a land vehicle, and Asterion didn't have one of his own to volunteer. And Asterion was a general. And generals were strong. 

            Thankfully, the town was  _very_ small, and Asterion was able to climb into Mottie’s boat with as much feigned ease as had been real twenty years ago.

            There was no conversation as they approached the lighthouse, no sound except the steady chugging of the little motor and the licking of the waves against the sides of the boat. Asterion sat on a bench near the prow, some kind of storage, he assumed. His leg wasn't thanking him for that run or his most recent foray into acting, and he was grateful that the couple that had come to help had taken the lead and sat down on more storage benches on the other side of the boat before he and Neb had even climbed in. 

            He probably wouldn't have been able to stand for the whole boat ride, short as it would be, even if the others had shown that it was the done thing. A disaster. A very, very small disaster. But the people that thought up protocol were never present for any of the big disasters, were they? 

            Well. Some of them had been. And they were determined to never, ever be present for any big disaster, ever again. That was why the Golden Army kept running, wasn't it? Because the people at the top weren't utterly clueless. Maybe they weren't clueless at all. It was just that the goals they had were so, so different from everyone else's. 

            But the fearlings' goals were even more inimical and so...and so here Asterion was, a loyal dog about to make himself all too much like a wolf, because the herds he guarded weren't his ultimate masters.

            This close to the lighthouse, the beam swooped far above Mottie's boat. Asterion was very glad it wasn't hitting him. He'd be likely to turn his face away, and, well. It would be a moment of melodrama, to be sure, but that didn't mean it wouldn't have been honest.

            The boat slowed and bumped gently into a wooden dock lit with a few dim red lights.

Before Asterion or Neb could make a move, Mottie and the other helpers jumped out of the boat and bound it to the dock. Gratefully walking towards the lighthouse only minutes later, Asterion decided that anyone who thought he should have exerted any sort of authority in that situation ought to be spaced. 

            The stairs to the lighthouse proper were wide and shallow, though there were a lot of them, and winding. Asterion's leg twinged just looking at them, but he had come this far, there was nothing for it. Anyway, this was all just strain. The nanos could fix that once he got back to the comet class. Probably.

            "It will be better if everyone stays calm," Mottie said when they all reached the door. "I don't know where my mom is, but we—we don't want to act like invaders."

            The door was unlocked when Mottie pushed it open, though a pair of chairs and a small table had been stacked haphazardly against it. He frowned deeply upon seeing this, though behind his worry he also looked deeply mortified. 

            Asterion glanced away to survey the room, noting at once that it was empty of other people. Very well, he would observe what else he could about it. The lights had been on when they arrived, or rather, unshuttered. They were the kind that weren't wired into anything, that worked with sun and salt water. Fill them up and leave them out in the sun, and they glowed for however long they were out. The only way to turn them off was to close the shuttering mechanisms around them.

            These lamps here hung on several hooks in the ceiling, shining over a living space and kitchen held within a circular space about nine meters across, clearly the only room on this level. To the right of the door a sofa and a pair of armchairs surrounded a low table facing the window. Glass-fronted cupboards containing blankets, what looked like game boxes, and a few books stood along the walls. There was no main interface apparent, but a power cord snaked through a tiny crack in the window, doubtless linked to some solar generator outside, but probably one of the type more suitable for camping rather than one made for home use, if this was how it was set up.

            Looking toward the other side of the room, he noted the usual number of appliances in the kitchen, and was puzzled. Some of those camping generators were pretty good, but they couldn't run a whole kitchen and it would have been far more efficient to get just one household standard one. It didn't seem like Mottie and his mother would have lacked for help if they needed it to set it up, either. But, there they were, individual power cords for each appliance shoved through the windows.

            And Mottie checked them all. He found one that was cut, and dropped it as if it had burned him. He didn't say anything about it to the others, instead turning to them and gesturing toward the doorway to the stairs. "She'll be upstairs, then," he said. "If she can walk, I'll see if I can convince her to come downstairs. But she might not want to, given how she treated the door." He pressed his lips together. "It's a good sign that she was able to move things. If I need you I'll call." 

            He disappeared up the stairs, and one of the villagers began calmly moving the pieces of furniture that had formed the little barricade back into their proper places. Asterion felt uncharacteristically useless—it was clear enough that he wasn't the general here. But it was also clear enough who  _was_. He turned to Neb to see how she was reacting to the situation, but before he had even focused on her a terrible yell sounded from the upper floor.

            "No!" a woman's voice cried. "Leave me alone! How do I know that you're Mottie? How do I know? You were gone, and how could it be Mottie coming back when the world is so full of monsters? How? Oh, you're wearing his face, but I know you're not Mottie! Mottie would never try to make me leave my post! Mottie wouldn't try to make me abandon the light!" An incoherent yell. "Where's my Mottie?"

            "He's going to need help," the woman, Siana, Asterion thought he had heard her called, said.

            "No sounds of anything broken, yet," the man said. "Think she's still having trouble moving or there's nothing left for her to throw?"

            "We know well enough to not count on either," Siana said.

            Asterion did turn to Neb, now. "There'll be sedatives in that medical pack. We should get them out."

            "Nano seds?" Siana asked.

            Asterion did his best not to look surprised. Nano sedatives had no side effects, but were slow-acting, and they weren't the kind of thing that someone in charge of a field kit would have time or cause to administer. They were also uncommon and expensive. He would have been surprised if anyone in the village had known what they were and how they were used. Unless...unless these were one of the services that Dr. Iser offered to Mottie's mother. 

            But clearly, not regularly enough to be effective. The conception of just how much debt Mottie and his mother might be in changed drastically, into a power that very, very few people could stand against. Asterion shoved the thought away, disgusted with himself. Now wasn't the time to make that kind of calculation.

            "Chem seds," Asterion told her.

            "They got yitterfieeyal in them?"

            He glanced to Neb. "Yes," she said. 

            Siana shook her head. "Then they'll make her less able to throw anything at us, but they’ll also make her real, real afraid for days. Make it real likely that we'd be doing another one of these runs before the week was out."

_Then what do you suggest we do?_  Asterion wanted to ask, but generals weren't supposed to ask that question. "I see," he said. "You've helped transport her without sedatives before, then?"

            Siana nodded. 

_Well, I don't think she seems like the type to brag about a general in the Golden Army following her lead. There's not enough of a central Constellan presence here for her to be familiar with why she should care. And Neb...Neb's trained to trust my judgement, no matter what._

            Mottie called for assistance, then, and without waiting for Asterion to say anything at all, Siana and her husband headed for the stairs. Asterion and Neb followed.  
  
***

 

            "How do you assess the current situation, Neb?" Asterion asked. They stood outside Uma's house in a night that had turned foggy enough to prevent any other buildings from being noticeable as anything other than a few faint lights. The lighthouse beacon still swung brightly back and forth across the water. Inside, Dr. Iser was tending to Mottie's mother. She had quieted quickly enough that Asterion had to guess she had been treated with chem seds, just without yitterfieeyal. Those wouldn't be the sort that were available in the Hub. Still, they'd be less expensive than nano seds.

            "Permission to speak freely, General?" she asked

            "Granted."

            "I don't think we did anything tonight that the people who know Mottie and his mother could have done just as well, or better. I think we're here for another reason. I think that reason could have a lot to do with our mission."

            "You're being rather circumspect for someone speaking freely," Asterion noted.

            "Yes, I am, sir," Neb said. "This is a mission it is difficult to speak freely about, even if I do not know the full details of it."

            "You know that we've been sent to look for someone who would make a good officer."

            Neb nodded in the misty darkness.

            "I expect you've also seen at least a dozen young people so far that could do well as officers. The problem is, if what you knew about the mission was the entire truth of it, you'd be part of a larger team, with a leader who'd done officer recruiting before. You'd have tried to get every one of those promising young people to sign up. You wouldn't be looking into so much detail about the lives of those promising young people. You'd be confident that training would sort everything out. You'd get your quota of potential officers and you'd be done. There wouldn't be anything secret about it. And they wouldn't have sent an old—but relatively famous—general to head the mission."

            "That's true, sir," Neb said. "And we wouldn't be somewhere like here, where they aren't due for another recruitment for three years. We also wouldn't care so much about seeing every eligible young person in the village. There are always more recruits, even officer recruits, in the vastness of Constellan space." She paused. "The way we're looking, it seems more like we're trying to find a lost royal child in a story."

            "Well," Asterion said, "we are looking as we have been instructed to look. We are looking for only one recruit. True, there are a few other teams like ours, looking for a very particular individual. Eleven others, actually. One dozen recruits will be presented a little less than two years from now. At that time the Golden Army high command will make a preliminary decision."

            "A...decision."

            Asterion nodded. "Neb, we _are_ looking for someone who's officer material. But we're also looking for someone who...someone who will be able to fight battles they don't even know exist, along with all the others against the fearlings. We're looking for someone..." He scoffed. "We're looking for someone who always wins. Someone perfect. And someone who doesn't know it." He folded his arms. "We're looking for someone who perfectly embodies the light and freedom of the Constellan Empire, the purity of the cause against the fearlings, and, in short—we're looking for the kid who will become the Golden General."

            Neb was silent for several moments. Asterion had a feeling she was looking at him in shock. He would have looked at his general in shock, if his general had said such a thing to him when he was an ensign. "But the Golden General," she began slowly, "is...a poster character. From thirty years ago."

            "And imagine being the person who first brings up that name again in reference to a young, talented general on a meteoric rise fifteen years from now."

            "Fifteen! Begging your pardon, sir, but that says a few things, doesn't it?"

            "Oh, indeed it does," Asterion said. "It says that this war isn't likely to end or even slow down for the next fifteen years, and it says that we can make generals in fifteen years without even seeing the person who's going to wear the uniform." He took a long, slow breath. "Neb, you may have noticed that there's more to being a general in the Golden Army than commanding armies, especially the closer one gets to the center of Constellan space."

            "I have noticed that," she said.

            "The problem that I see," Asterion continued quietly, "is that they want this kid to be a real general, as well as the Golden General. That's not going to be easy. For the kid, I mean. It will be easy enough for them to make him want to be both, if the right kid is picked. If we pick the right kid."

            "They've all seemed really young to you, haven't they, sir?"

            "Do you know that one of the criteria for the kid we're supposed to pick is that they're desirable?" Asterion closed his mouth and felt a muscle in his jaw twitch.

            "I suppose...the Golden General is going to be seen a lot, aren't they?"

            "Everyone in the age group we're looking for still has baby fat on their cheeks," Asterion said. "And Spinner tried to imply that this town was full of predators because they didn't have everyone's birth records to hand."

            "General," Neb said after a long pause, "is it true that you volunteered for this mission?"

            "It is," Asterion said. "I volunteered because I knew what they wanted, because I've learned how to understand their language. I volunteered because...if I find the right kid, they won't do this again. Not in my lifetime, at least. The Golden General's going to be glorious, Neb. They're going to end the war."

            "How can they be confident that the Golden General will do that, if they don't see the war ending within the next fifteen years?" Neb asked. "I think that our generals now—our army—we—we've been fighting with all our strength, we've constantly developed new strategies—we—General, stars, don't say that they could—that there's a way they could have ended—General, my—she—" Neb fell silent, though her breathing was noisier than before.

            "I'd like to believe they're lying about what they say they could do if they wanted, too," Asterion said. "That they're being overconfident fools when they imply what they do. That maybe I'm just a bitter and paranoid old cripple who doesn't like his dress uniform."

            "General!" Neb exclaimed. "I haven't known you long, but I don't know you to be paranoid. You just pay attention to things."

            Asterion smiled. "Well, that's not so comforting." He looked out into the fog. There was nothing to pay attention to, there. Not in this village, anyway. "You're right that what we did tonight had more to do with our mission than our sworn duty to protect Constellan citizens." He paused. "Ensign, I have told you more than I should. I have told you enough that you could get in very serious trouble for knowing it, and I'm sorry. I have not acted as a general should, tonight." 

            "Sir. I accept your apology, though I understand that you have told me nothing. We have merely been talking about the weather."

            "And still the fog hasn't cleared," Asterion said. "I'm going to see if there's anything for us to do. If not, we'll go back to the inn."  
  
***

 

            Mottie looked half-dead the next morning in the Hub, washed-out, with dark circles under his eyes, but he was there, along with two dozen or so other young people around his age. Asterion couldn't help but keep glancing at him as he made his way slowly through the group, introducing himself to everyone, asking a few questions that would have been helpful if he hadn't already decided what he was going to do. Mottie. That wasn't the name they'd know him by in the Golden Army, not if he was going to be the one. Mottie, Mottie, Mottie. If his mother hadn't had that episode, he'd be well-rested, but Asterion wouldn't have seen him in an emergency. Would he have still seen what he was looking for in the youth, then? If Mottie hadn't decided to go to the inn to look for help, Asterion wouldn't have known why he looked so tired today, and probably would have dismissed him out of hand. If Asterion hadn't insisted on coming along to offer his help, he wouldn't know what kind of leverage he could wield when talking to Mottie. He wouldn't have had the opportunity to quickly glance into Mottie’s room and see the recruitment posters hanging on every wall. 

            There were probably dozens of kids he could have picked in the places they had stopped before this one. Or if not dozens, at least a few. 

            But that didn't mean that Asterion could afford to let Mottie go. Because if he let Mottie go, he'd still have to find someone he wouldn't do that for. 

            Mottie drank tea from one of the Hub's thick white ceramic cups. He looked out the window, but he didn't seem to be paying attention to the view. Asterion wished he would. If he agreed to the army's offer, he wouldn’t be seeing much more of his village for a long, long time.

            Asterion waited to talk to him as long as he could, keeping Spinner happy and busy and obliviously hated by sending away one or two kids at a time with all the formality and condescension of a matchmaker of the petty nobility. Finally, though, he had to speak with him. 

            "Here," Asterion said, offering a thermos and a small enamel box to Mottie just as he was heading back to the samovars to refill his tea. "Try this. I think it might be better than what the Hub has to offer." 

            "Thank you, sir" Mottie said. He didn't say anything more—no quip against the perpetual bad tea the Hub would have, but no hint that he might not know what to do with loose leaves, either. There was a trace of awe in the glances he gave Asterion as he fixed his cup. No, more than a trace. And why? He hadn't been particularly impressive, or helpful, last night. 

            It would still be the uniform. Asterion wanted to sigh. Why couldn't the high command have picked someone who looked like they thought the Golden General should and have done with it? They'd be able to find enough officers to really direct them. Asterion had seen a good solid handful of generals whose competence was limited to figuring out how to make that happen without appearing to. The high command could certainly do it on purpose. Why did they need the Golden General to be  _real_?

            It was hard to land on an answer, and the only one he could find, he didn't like. The Golden General needed to be real because he needed to be able to be the Golden General at all times, to whoever he met. 

            That would be impossible for any human being, but with enough training, the illusion might come very close.

            Asterion kept his face carefully level as he fixed his own tea. The other reason why it would be a necessity for the Golden General to be real was that he could be a real martyr, if needed. Depending on the circumstances, that could be very, very good theater. 

            Asterion drank his tea while it was still too hot. He looked over at Mottie, who blew gently on the tea in his stolid mug. He was tall. A little taller than even Asterion, actually, though he didn't have the presence to make him notice it before. Ink-black hair, falling just below his ears. Cut inexpertly, but there was enough length to work with already. His eyebrows arched to points that looked almost fierce when combined with the prominent jut of his nose. Would that be what they were looking for? The boy's lips were thin, but he was supposed to be a general, first, and the fiction would be that his desirability was incidental. Asterion knew he was supposed to look for it, nevertheless, and felt ice settle in the pit of his stomach while he did his duty. Cheekbones, jawline—they looked half-sharp, half-soft, all-odd, but if Asterion's memories of watching young soldiers grow up were correct, Mottie would probably be stunning by the time he got his first promotion. More than probably. The kid hadn't grown into his limbs yet, not completely, but he didn't move or stand like he was held up by twigs and poorly tied yarn, either. There was already something elegant about him. Wouldn't it look nice against the brutality he'd have to develop and then hide as a general?

            Undoubtedly.

            "Mottie, I hope you don't mind me bringing this up, but I was really impressed with how you handled yourself during the incident last night. Not many young people can stay so focused in such stressful situations."  _So how would you like to be perfect in even more stressful situations and maybe die if you slip up?_  

            "Thank you, sir," Mottie said, looking genuinely pleased. 

            The moment allowed Asterion to steel himself once more. It's got to be someone. The high command demands someone. Anyone you find is going to be this young. At least with this one you know he has a chance at succeeding as a real officer for as long as he can. At least with this one you won't have to spend too long persuading him—hopefully.

            "I mention it," Asterion went on, "because my companions and I are here on a special recruiting mission for officer candidates. You were probably just a little too young to even be considered the last time the recruiters came through, yes? I'd like to personally encourage you to sign on, this time. I see in you the potential to become an officer of great distinction."

            Mottie gave him a quick smile. "I've thought about joining, before," he said. "I actually was just old enough when the last recruiting ship came through. And I would join, but, well, my mother's sick. She's...really more stable than before, but I don't think I could leave her alone. And, well, it wasn't easy, getting her as stable as she is now. I've looked into the compensation for recruits, and if she wasn't able to keep the lighthouse—well. I know that you can't quit the Golden Army, no matter what happens. I don't know if I'd do much good for her from far away."

            "I see." Asterion nodded slowly. "I heard someone mention nano-seds last night. Were those what helped stabilize her?"

            Mottie frowned. "Partially. I think there was magic involved, too. We saw an outworlder in Kahiri."

            Now that was surprising. Treatment like that was almost always extremely expensive, and it was never the first option for anybody. Especially on a planet like this, where the records showed no verified use of conscious magic before Constellan contact, and certainly no genuine effective magic systems in place before the contact, either. Planets like this, it was sometimes hard convincing people that magic existed at all, much less that it should be part of premium medical treatment. "I see that there's more to this than I assumed."

            Mottie took a sip of his tea. "You're wondering how my mom paid for it in the first place. My father was a fisherman; he died suddenly when I was only a baby. One of the things we inherited was a complete treatment for a catastrophic illness. When my mom realized she was getting worse, she decided to use that. By the time she was finally approved...well, the thing is, she was treated, and she really did seem fine. Well enough that she was given a certificate of recovery. But, neither of us realized that was an official document that meant that the complete treatment was over, and when she relapsed her first thought was to continue the same treatments. By the time we figured out what was going on with all the legal particulars...well, you can guess."

            Asterion could guess. He'd bet the certificate of recovery he'd gotten for his leg on his guess, and the leg that was still good, which would actually make the bet worth something. "I see," he said. "And it makes perfect sense, then, that you'd decline to join the Golden Army as an ordinary recruit. What good is it, after all, to protect the families of the galaxy in abstract without first securing your own?" Such was a sentiment that he'd heard expressed in different tones by certain of his superiors as he'd worked his way through the ranks. Regardless of what tone they used, though, compared to the rest of the population of the Constellan Empire, a vanishingly small percentage of officers above the rank of colonel were married or in long term relationships. Even fewer had children. But he'd never been explicitly discouraged from either endeavor, so he didn't have to mention that to Mottie, now, did he? Well, certainly not, what with everything else he wasn't mentioning.

            "That makes sense to me, sir," Mottie said. "But if there's anything else I could do to help the Golden Army from Phinia, perhaps you could put in a recommendation for me? If you think I have the intelligence to be an officer, surely I have the intelligence to do well in a...a logistical role, as well." 

            The kid was trying his best to keep his expression schooled, and doing a fairly good job of it for a teenager. 

            "But that seems a lot less fun than being a soldier, doesn't it?" Asterion asked. Seems was the operative word, of course.

            A quick smile flickered over the kid's face before it solidified into solemnity once more. "I know that joining the army isn't about fun."

            The propaganda division would be so disappointed to hear him say that. At least, they would if he sounded like he actually believed it. "Well, well. Of course not. Joining the army is about work. Work, where, if you do it right, there's the chance for adventure and fame to match your wildest dreams. And all while acting for the good of everyone you've ever cared about. Mottie, you're young, and you're alive. You don't have to pretend you haven't thought about these things." 

            Mottie relaxed a little, but not all the way. For a moment, Asterion was able to hope that reserve of tension was because he had seen through him. But no. "Well, if you don't think that kind of desire is dangerous, sir, then...yes, I do think it would be more fun to be in the army than working in support. Especially since you told me just now that I have potential to work my way far up. But unless you can find a way for me to join up and still make sure that my mom can stay at the lighthouse and be safe when she has another attack, then I can't."

            Asterion paused. The pain in his leg flared, but he suspected it was psychosomatic at the moment. "If it's only the money that's a barrier, it might not be insurmountable." Instantly, Mottie's full attention was on him. "I did say you had potential. A lot of potential. I've only worked in recruiting rarely, but I've had the opportunity to see a lot of new soldiers and see how they developed. Anyone I and my team choose on Phinia will be signed into the officer training program. That program will give you a higher pay level than a regular recruit, and you still won't have any more expenses than they would.

            "In fact, I can draw up the documents right now so you can see if that compensation would work in your situation. I imagine you're familiar with your family's budget."

            Mottie nodded. 

            "Furthermore," Asterion said, "provided you don't have a sudden personality change on the way to officer training, I'd be willing to write you a recommendation—this would allow you to be considered for early promotion. Once you're on that trajectory, it won't take long before nano seds seem hardly more notable than a headache patch. Especially since all magical medical treatment would be covered for you and your mother as soon as you go on active duty. It's not retroactive _,_ but it is something."

            "It would be a lot more than that." Mottie looked over and met Asterion's eyes. "I'd like to see how much I'd be paid during officer training."  
  
***

 

            Spinner was the one who put together the sheet on the benefits of officer training, and as Asterion watched Mottie read it, his eyes drawing the information in with the intensity of two black holes, he thought that maybe Spinner had finally made up for the continuous nuisance he'd been since they left Krega. 

            Neb approached Asterion with two bowls of savory porridge from the Hub dispensary. When she handed him his, he looked at it grimly. "Do you know if the grain even grew on this planet?" he asked.

            "Phinia is not a central world," Neb said, sitting down and digging into her bowl with a flattish spoon that could also serve as part of the meal when she was done with the porridge. "The supply chains are not as advanced here. Everything, even the utensils, was grown and processed within a hundred klicks of here."

            "Thank the stars," Asterion said. After a few bites, he looked up at Neb in surprise. "Have my former years on standard rations ruined my taste entirely, or is this actually good?"

            "I spent the same number of years on standard rations as you, sir, so I can't answer the first part of your question, but it does beat out anything else I've had from a Hub kitchen." She smiled a little. "Actually, I did talk to the cook for a bit. Apparently this place had a similar dish before the Hub was here. It didn't take too many adjustments for the nutritional guidelines to be met. Of course, they aren't following regulations exactly—the protein used has a noticeably different texture than the grain, and they've included a number of nutritionally null superfluous additives."

            "I'm sure Spinner will include that in his report," Asterion said, scooping a chunk of fish from the richly-spiced porridge.

            "You know, I sometimes think he refers to spices as nutritionally null superfluous additives when he's not on duty, too," Neb commented. "That is, sir, there can be no fault in always using standard terminology."

            "At ease, Neb, I wasn't paying attention at all, so shocked was I by the irregularity of a Hub serving something that tastes significantly different from the utensils with which it's meant to be eaten." 

            Neb didn't reply, and Asterion looked over at her. "I didn't mean that the conversation had to end."

            "Sir," Neb said. "I understand that. It's just that I thought of another conversation we had, and I started thinking...wondering how we can sit here and eat, and joke." She looked out over her knees. "I suppose we can't stop doing either of those things, not forever. But I...I almost wish I still didn't know the things you mentioned. Then everything would seem pretty much normal for me. Now, there's the real mission, and everything it implies, and there's you. We've never talked so much before. You've been very correct as a general on this mission. Seeing you as more than a general...I don't think it's impropriety that troubles me, but it's something like that. Please forgive me if I've overstepped my bounds."

            "You haven't, Neb," Asterion sighed. "At least not in a way that I haven't tacitly wanted you too. According to strict propriety, there aren't many people a general can confide in, not while they're on duty, and only a few more when they're off duty. I guess that was a bit too difficult for me to remember on this mission. Again, I should be the one to apologize. I haven't been acting like a general should." He ate a few more bites of food. "I think I know why this all seems so ghastly, though. Us joking and you knowing, now? You're forced to see me as someone that can joke, who has food preferences, who has a history in common with you—a real person. And I'm a real person who's also making the choice you know. That very unfair choice. And if you don't hate me, you have to see that it's a difficult choice for me for a lot of reasons, that being a general doesn't make things easy for me. And you have to see me taking an action that, even if the consequences are exactly as projected, isn't going to be a win-win for everyone involved. In some way, I am failing here, in a way that can't be remedied. The Golden Army doesn't want it's generals to be seen like that. 

            "But, of course, we all will, at some time or another. The general I'm supposed to be isn't human, and I am. So you see that. You extrapolate. I'm a general among other generals. The expectations on me are standard expectations. I've had my whole career to get used to them. They still trip me up sometimes, though. Luckily, in this case, it's only been between the two of us that I haven't been exactly general-like.

            "But even if you forgive me for my slip-ups, how can you forgive me for showing you the inherent fallibility of a general when our whole purpose here is to find someone to consign to never failing, ever?"

            "Do they...do they know that it's impossible for them to get exactly what they want?" Neb asked.

            "That, Neb, is the one of the things they absolutely do not know. And someone with more guts than I've got will be the first person to teach them that lesson."

            Neb looked away, over towards Mottie. After a pause, she said, "I've been observing him, too."

            "Have you seen anything about him that would disqualify him?"

            "Sir, I would of course report if I had noticed anything at all that could negatively affect the outcome of the mission," she said, her words exactly correct and her tone soft. "But that's not what I've noticed. I've noticed that he doesn't seem to have very close friends among the group we called here today. It's been easy for him to distance himself from the others."

            "He  _is_  busy reading."

            "But no one's coming up to him to see what he's got that's so much more interesting than the material they were given. There's no single group that keeps looking over at him, wondering when he'll rejoin them."

            "He's not an outcast, Neb. We saw that well enough last night."

            "Yes, sir, that's true. But that doesn't preclude what I've observed. There's something about him that sets him noticeably apart from the other people his age. So. He'll be used to that. And there's less to keep him here."

            "Well. Good," Asterion said after a long pause. Neb didn't say anything after, even after they were both done eating and she took away their bowls. 

            When she had stepped away, Mottie approached Asterion. "I've looked everything over twice, sir," he said. "It would be good for my mom and me if I joined the officer program. And, since that's also what I want, I intend to sign on. When do I start? It was the only thing the documents didn't say."

            "Selective officer training has rolling admissions," Asterion said. "My team and I leave tomorrow; if you want to join with my recommendation, you'll be coming with us."

            Mottie blanched and moved back from Asterion just the slightest amount before composing himself. "I can be ready by then," he said quietly. He found Asterion's eyes. "After all, I don't need to pack much, do I?"

            "The only thing you're required to bring is your name," Asterion said. "By the way, what is your full name? I don't think you've mentioned it yet."

            "Kozmotis Pitchiner," he said. 

_By all the stars,_  Asterion thought,  _Kozmotis. They won't even ask him to change it. He'll never suspect while there's still a chance for him._ "Kozmotis! A fine name. And, yes, that is all you need to bring, though those starting officer training on a planet other than their homeworld are allowed a certain number of personal effects."

            "Yes sir," said Mottie. Asterion couldn't think of him as Kozmotis. Not yet. 

            Not yet, but soon. "Now, unless you have more questions for me, you can go to where Major Spinner is sitting, and sign the joining documents. After that, you have the rest of the day to prepare, and I'll expect to see you at 0800 hours in front of the inn."

            "Thank you sir. Yes, I'll be there."

            And he would, now that he had said it, wouldn't he? Asterion watched Mottie hurry over to Spinner's table, his steps becoming more eager as he went. Asterion leaned back and sighed through his nose, glad he was already sitting down. 

            "Sir?" Neb's voice came from slightly behind him. 

            "It's time to send all the other kids home," he said. "They're safe for now. Mottie's over by Spinner signing up."

            "So...mission accomplished?" 

            Asterion's chest jerked in a short, silent laugh. "Yes, Ensign. Mission accomplished." He rolled his shoulders. "I gave him a full day. We leave tomorrow morning. I'm not looking forward to waiting that out, but it's the least I can do. The very least."

            "General...is there any chance...is there any chance you're wrong about what they want to make of him? If enough has been left vague..."

            Asterion shook his head. "I've been vague in what I've told you, Neb. The high command was more specific with me."

            Neb paused to watch Mottie sign the forms and give his fingerprints and retinal scan to Spinner.

            "Is there any chance...he won't be the one the high command chooses? Or...that is, when we spoke of his career, it didn't sound like something that would allow someone ordinary to thrive. But you chose him because there's something extraordinary about him, yes? So, perhaps he will thrive?"

            Asterion slowly stood up, keeping one hand on the back of the chair. He shouldn't have done all that running last night, no matter what it had gained him. "You're right that he might not be the one the high command chooses," he said. "But a one-in-twelve chance is still rather high, especially since Mottie—that is, Kozmotis—wants so badly to do his best. The other groups—I know they'll all find promising candidates, if they know what's good for them. But I don't know if they'll find any candidates that are both so promising and so hungry."

            Neb nodded. "Well, then. Kozmotis. He already sounds the part."

            "True." Asterion watched as Mottie pushed open the Hub doors and let in a wide swath of cool yellow sunlight. The sudden change of light gilded his skin and sent a sharp black shadow lancing out behind him. Asterion held the image even after the doors had swung shut and Mottie was out of sight. It was something he might be called upon to repeat someday, in the building of a myth. "The thing is, Neb, that to make him a general, I know Mottie's got to go. But to make him the Golden General...I don't know how much will be left of Kozmotis when all is said and done, either."

            "And you still think it's worth it?"

            "Yes," Asterion said quietly. "And I'll say it louder once I don't have to see him every day."

**Author's Note:**

> What do you say, shall I make it a whole space opera?


End file.
